I haven’t been writing here much because so much that I have to say is so private it just goes in the paper journal I write to my dead husband.
Some days are ok.
Some days I’m really really bitter. And jealous and angry. Jealous of everyone who doesn’t have to do this by themself. Jealous right now. Jealous of everyone who can maybe make the time to fill out their long-term disability policy applications (or more likely doesn’t need to do one because they haven’t had to confront the reality of being the sole provider for their kid and worry if they are crippled instead of killed in a car accident there’s 30 years of income that should have been there to take care of both of you)
instead of needing to frantically use their kid’s naptime to take a shit and brush their teeth and check that they took their thyroid meds because who knows if they did earlier and put batteries back in the firefly nightlight and clean up the pouch that they let their kid have in the car which immediately got squirted on the carseat in today’s installment of Poor Parenting Decisions Saturday.
11 months ago this time of day we were in the ER.
And now I’m sad and lucky like Nina McInerny. Our first mutual friend and his family take care of me and worry about me and visit me from across the country. And some days it feels ok. It feels like a life worth living and like I won’t totally fail to live in the ways you wanted.
And sometimes it’s lonely and it’s crap and I hate it.
And sometimes I’m happy and then I’m sad for being happy.